Serious Risks

By Rachel Lee

Computer programmer Jessica Kilmer's life changed the moment she realized classified documents had been stolen from her safe. She knew contacting the FBI would turn her life upside down, but she never expected what would happen when she met special agent Arlen Coulter. For even as Arlen assured her that he would keep her safe, his quiet intensity awakened her heart to another danger altogether....

It seemed to Arlen that the greatest risk in this case was the effect Jessica had on him. She aroused feelings he'd long believed dead--and preferred to keep buried. But the danger that Jessica faced was real--could Arlen get her out before it was too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781743695678

Rachel Lee

Rachel Lee was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"Somebody stole a classified document from my safe last night."

The breathless, nervous claim over the telephone brought Special Agent Arlen Coulter upright in his chair and banished every other thought from his head. A perfectly routine afternoon of reviewing case reports from his agents lost the last vestige of ordinariness. Swiftly reaching across his desk, he pulled over a legal pad and a pen.

What’s your name? he asked the woman. And where are you calling from?

My name is Jessica Kilmer, and I’m calling from a pay phone on the interstate.

Give me the number in case we get disconnected. He made her recite it twice to be sure he got it right. In the background he could hear the whiz and roar of the late-afternoon traffic. Okay, Ms. Kilmer, he said. Tell me about it.

There was a shuddery breath from the other end of the phone. I work for MTI—Military Technologies, Inc. We do a lot of defense work.

I’m familiar with MTI, Arlen said. Indeed he was. MTI ranked as the area’s second-largest defense contractor. Go on, ma’am.

Someone took a classified document from my safe during the night, she repeated unsteadily, as if she couldn’t quite believe her own words. I’m the only one who has the combination, except for the copy that security keeps in their vault.

Arlen leaned forward tensely. Possibilities were already flitting through his head, not the least of them that this was a crank call. In the past he had worked in counterintelligence in the Washington, D.C., area, so he knew just how common espionage was. Nevertheless, this was the first hint of it that he had gotten during his entire six years in Austin, Texas. Still, the woman knew things that only someone engaged in classified work would know, such as the fact that security would have the only other combination to a classified safe. You’re sure the document is missing?

Oh, yes. She expelled the words on another unsteady breath. I went through every folder in the safe, in case it was misfiled.

It couldn’t have been left out by accident? Arlen kept his voice calm, nonaccusatory. Once a witness was put on the defensive, you could forget any hope of getting a straight story.

"No. I haven’t had it out of the safe in several weeks. It was there last night when I filed the document that comes just before it. I know it was there!"

The rising tone of her voice conveyed her frustration and concern as no words could have. Arlen felt a small twinge of sympathy for her, but he put it firmly aside. He couldn’t afford to allow his mind or his judgment to be clouded by sympathy.

I believe you, Ms. Kilmer, he said soothingly. Have you told anyone else about the theft?

I reported it to security, she answered, and now her tone was indignant. "They’re insisting I must have mislaid it or misfiled it or loaned it to someone, because I’m the only one with the combination to the safe. That’s the whole point, and they’re missing it. That’s why I’m calling you! The point is, someone opened that safe last night. Someone else has the combination!"

Arlen didn’t need to have the ramifications of that statement spelled out. If someone else had the combination, there was no telling how often that person had gained access to Jessica Kilmer’s safe. There was no way to know how many other safes at MTI this supposed spy might have combinations for, or how often he might have invaded them. Or how many classified documents he might have stolen, photographed, copied—the list of potential abuses was catastrophic.

Arlen addressed Jessica Kilmer. Are you going back to work?

She gave a shaky, mirthless laugh. Hardly. By the time they got through grilling me and insinuating that I have the IQ of an insect, I had a splitting headache. I’m going home.

Just a few more questions, Ms. Kilmer, if you’re up to it.

Yes, of course.

Does anyone know you’re calling the FBI? The security people at your company, perhaps?

No, no one knows. Jessica Kilmer sighed heavily. Even over the phone, her weariness and frustration were apparent to Arlen. The security people aren’t planning to tell anyone about this just yet. They’re evidently convinced that the report will show up and that they’ll be able to explain the whole thing in some fashion that won’t reflect badly on them or the company.

And you don’t believe that.

How can I? I know that document was there when I locked my safe last night, and I know it was gone when I opened it this morning. There’s no way that can be explained as carelessness or an accident.

No, indeed, Arlen thought. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was nearly five. Ms. Kilmer, we need to discuss this in more detail. Can we get together somewhere this evening, say a restaurant?

There was a brief, hesitant silence. Wouldn’t it be more convenient for you if I came to your office?

Arlen couldn’t suppress a smile, and he was sure she must be able to hear it in his voice. There’s no question it would be more convenient, Ms. Kilmer, but until we get some idea of the size of this mess and who might be involved, I don’t want anyone to know you’ve contacted the Bureau. Our offices are in the busiest part of downtown, and there’s always the unwelcome possibility that someone who knows you might see you come in here.

Meeting at a restaurant just seems a little irregular, I guess.

He understood her trepidation and tried to tease her out of it. Believe me, Ms. Kilmer, I’ve questioned people in places that are a lot more irregular than any restaurant could ever be.

There was another very brief silence, and then Jessica Kilmer laughed, a genuinely amused sound. When he heard that, Arlen knew he’d taken the first step to establishing a rapport with the lady, a rapport that would be absolutely essential if it should turn out that they had to work together. And if she was right about this document, they would unquestionably wind up spending a lot of time together.

Actually, ma’am, we’re not so very different from your local police force. When you call to report something, we generally visit you to get the information. It would be just as easy for me to come to your home, if that would be more convenient for you. My only requirement is that we meet in a place where I can question you without interruption. It’s very important that you don’t get distracted and forget to tell me something.

All right, all right, Jessica said with a laugh. Let me give you my address. She rattled off a street and number, then added, I just moved in a couple of weeks ago, so I’m still neck-deep in packing boxes.

Don’t worry about it, he said. I’ll never notice.

What time should I expect you?

Say around seven, if that’s okay by you.

That’s just fine.

And, Ms. Kilmer? Don’t tell anyone at all that you called the FBI. I realize that sounds cloak-and-daggerish, but secrecy is essential. You wouldn’t want word of this conversation to get back to the wrong person.

How could she possibly tell anyone what she couldn’t quite believe herself? Jessica wondered as she climbed back into her car. She’d actually called the FBI! Her stomach, which had been sinking all day anyway, sank further at the significance of that realization. She forced herself to ignore the sensation, just as she had all day long. Other than dread and worry, the only other feeling she’d had today had been indignation.

And frustration. She had always believed the facility security officer to be a reasonably intelligent man, but now she seriously wondered. Was she the only person with the wit to understand the gravity of what she’d been saying all day: that someone else had the combination to her safe?

Mr. Coulter had apparently understood, she reminded herself, and felt reassured that her decision to call the FBI was correct. Correct? Of course it was correct! The company’s own Security Practice Procedures Manual said that the FBI should be informed if espionage was suspected, preferably from a pay phone off-site so there was no chance of being overheard. And Jessica most definitely suspected espionage.

By the time she arrived at home, however, she was remembering the suspicion with which her every statement had been heard by the security officer. Barron obviously thought Jessica was making everything up to conceal her own negligence. What if Coulter suspected the same thing?

Usually when Jessica stepped into the antique elegance of her two-story Victorian house she experienced the pride of her new ownership, the thrill of at last having a real home of her own. Tonight, however, all she felt was the weight of the mortgage, reminding her that she couldn’t afford job trouble. Not now. Not as long as she owed that payment every month. Not as long as most of her hard-earned savings, accumulated by scrimping for five long years, were tied up in the house.

What if Barron managed to hang the missing document on her?

As seven o’clock drew closer, Jessica grew edgier. She’d never been questioned by the FBI before—or any policeman, for that matter—and she found herself wondering why she hadn’t just let MTI security handle it. They couldn’t prove she had taken the document, no matter how much they might want to believe it. What if this FBI agent wanted to believe the same thing? What if he thought her call to him was all a smoke screen?

What if he got rough?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jessica! she said disgustedly to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she finished brushing her teeth. He’s an FBI agent! They don’t get rough except with criminals. And spies?

I am not a spy!

She knew it, and so did the small, pale face staring back at her from the mirror. Pushing her eyeglasses up her nose, Jessica gazed into her own wide, worried brown eyes and thought she looked exactly, exactly, like a small brown mouse pinned by an eagle’s eye.

A few strands of dark hair had escaped from the confines of her chignon, and she smoothed them back into place. Outwardly, at least, there was no nonsense about Jessica Kilmer. She might have the world’s most inventive, overactive imagination, but no one would ever guess it by looking at her.

On the other hand, she thought with a sigh, she wasn’t quite passing as her usual businesslike self, not with worry stamped all over her face. Mouse was the kindest description she could give herself.

The front doorbell sounded, and Jessica’s stomach plunged instantly in response. Oh, God, the FBI is here!

A real, honest-to-gosh FBI agent.

Cut it out, she told her reflection with more conviction than she really felt. He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else.

She headed downstairs, drew a deep breath, expelled it and opened the door.

And looked into the grayest eyes she’d ever seen. Not the pallid color that might be blue or green depending on the light, but gray like flannel, and fringed in thick, dark lashes. His hair was a rich, very dark brown, threaded with silver, and a little longer than she’d expected. Evidently FBI agents didn’t have to wear military-style haircuts anymore.

He was tall, over six feet to her five foot two, broad shouldered, narrow hipped. Elegant-looking, especially in a gray suit, white shirt and dark tie. He wasn’t, thank goodness, handsome. Handsome would have been too much to handle. No, he was simply attractive. His face was at best pleasant, regular featured.

But nothing in her life prepared her for this man’s total impact. The term sex appeal took on a whole new meaning for her in that instant, an understanding that might have frightened her except that there was nothing wolfish in his expression or posture. In fact, he was giving her a very pleasant smile and holding out his hand.

Ms. Kilmer? I’m Arlen Coulter.

Jessica felt her hand swallowed in his firm, warm grip and heard herself say something courteous in response, and tried not to notice the very acute and observant way his gaze measured her.

Arlen recognized her nervousness, but it hardly surprised him. Most people were nervous at the prospect of dealing with the FBI. He saw past the nervousness, though, past the no-nonsense hairstyle and the high-collared white blouse and neatly pressed gray slacks. Behind the armor there was waiflike vulnerability. It peeped uncertainly out at him from the depths of astonishingly bright brown eyes, and, to him at least, it would have been much less obvious had she not gone to such great lengths to hide it.

A pleasure, Ms. Kilmer, he said, releasing her hand. In order to seem less threatening, he plunged his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and waited for her invitation to enter. She continued to look uncertainly up at him, and then color rose from the neck of her blouse to meet the roots of her hair. Where did that blush start? he wondered, and felt an unexpected stirring of his body.

Jessica licked her dry lips, unaware that the small, nervous gesture had an electric effect on the tall man who stood so casually before her in a conservative gray suit. I, um, I don’t mean to be offensive, but can I see your badge, or whatever?

Arlen’s smile broadened a shade, and he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Handing her the slim leather wallet, he said, I’m not offended. The whole reason I have ID is so people can ask to see it. All you’ve done is show me you’re not gullible, Ms. Kilmer.

Jessica, who wouldn’t have recognized a valid FBI identity card or badge if it had stood up and bitten her, stared at the contents of the wallet and registered the words Arlen V. Coulter, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Her blush deepening, she passed the wallet back.

Please come in, Mr. Coulter. Or do I call you Agent Coulter?

If you insist, he said with a smile as he followed her through the gleaming entry hall and into a living room where packing boxes still occupied quite a bit of space. I’d prefer it if you’d just call me Arlen. We’re probably going to be seeing quite a bit of one another.

Jessica smiled shyly as she offered him a seat. You can call me Jessica. Would you like some coffee?

Not just now, thanks. Maybe later.

Jessica settled onto the couch, facing the armchair where she’d seated Arlen, and watched as he pulled a pad and pen out of his breast pocket. He had blunt-fingered, large hands, competent, capable-looking hands. Their movements were calm, controlled. As was he, she realized. Everything about him was controlled, even his smile.

I’ll probably need to get an official statement from you later, but for the moment, why don’t we just go over what happened? He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The questions may get a little repetitious, but I need to be sure you aren’t inadvertently overlooking something. All right?

Jessica nodded and clasped her hands tightly, wondering why the living room suddenly seemed small. She’d considered it a pleasantly large room until Arlen Coulter entered it, but he seemed to fill it completely.

And there was a wedding ring on his left hand. She noticed the gold band with an unexpected stab of disappointment and wondered why it should matter.

Arlen spoke. Jessica, why don’t you tell me a little bit about your job and the kind of classified information you work with.

I’m a programmer, she explained. I work on software for Department of Defense applications. Right now I’m designing a package that’s intended to be able to pick out planes and incoming missiles from all the electronic countermeasures that are available to confuse radar.

Arlen was impressed. Can it?

It’s too soon to tell yet, but in theory it should work.

How long have you been working on defense applications?

Six years.

In answer to his prompting, she described some of the other programs she’d worked on over the years. Listening to her, watching her, Arlen realized a couple of things. This lady was very bright, and she loved her work. As she spoke, she grew animated, using her hands and smiling, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. At this new glimpse of the woman behind the uptight, severe facade, Arlen wondered what had happened to her to make her want to hide her vitality. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. He was here as an agent to do a job, not to wonder about a woman who was young enough to be his daughter.

Eventually he brought her back to the events of the past day. Her animation faded, to be replaced by the nervous worry he’d seen when he first arrived.

At the end of the day, Jessica explained, I lock up everything I work with—my files, my hard drive from the computer, any paper I’ve scribbled on or written on. I don’t bother sorting at night, because I’m tired and might make a mistake. In the morning I’ll decide which stuff needs to be burned, but in the evening I just lump it all into an envelope and file it in my safe.

What kind of safe do you have?

It’s a GSA-approved four-drawer cabinet. All safes used for the storage of classified information had to be approved by the General Services Administration, or GSA, an indication that the safe met certain standards.

Arlen nodded. What level material do you keep in it?

Just Secret and Confidential. If I need to use Top Secret or special-access information, like Secret Compartmented Information, I check them out of the vault downstairs and return them at the end of the day.

And last night you followed your usual procedure.

Jessica nodded, clasping her hands together so tightly that Arlen saw her knuckles turn white.

Why don’t you run through it again for me? Just so I can be sure I have it right.

Jessica nodded again. I take my hard disk out—

Just a second, Arlen interrupted. You take your computer apart every night?

Jessica shook her head. I have an external, removable hard disk. It’s designed for this kind of thing. I can take it off my system in just a minute, and I always store it in the top drawer of my safe, unless for some reason there’s material of a higher classification on it. Then I take it to the vault.

Okay. You put your hard disk in the top drawer. Then what?

Then I pick up any documents I’ve pulled, and I file them in their proper folders in the other drawers. When that’s done, I pick up whatever scraps of paper there are that I’ve scribbled on, doodled on or whatever, put them in a manila envelope and file them in the suspense folder I keep at the front of the second drawer. Seeing the question form on his lips, she hastened to explain. The suspense file just means the stuff in it is suspended, set aside to deal with later.

He nodded. And that’s how you know the missing document was there last night?

That’s right. Realizing suddenly that her fingers were aching from the tight way she had folded her hands, Jessica unlaced them and wiggled them to relax them. I always put the suspense file right in front of it.

Arlen watched her wiggle her fingers, pursing his lips thoughtfully. And you’re sure it was there?

Jessica’s eyes snapped to his face. Yes. She said it with conviction.

Arlen’s gray eyes lifted from her hands to her eyes, and they no longer held any of the warmth and friendliness she’d seen in them earlier. I have to ask these questions, Jessica. They’re not intended to be offensive. How is it you’re sure the document was there? Usually when we do things in certain ways they become so habitual that we don’t really notice. Did you really see that document last night, or do you just think you saw it?

Her hands knotted into fists on her lap. "I saw it, she said flatly. The folder it was in is red, and the three folders behind it are blue. If that folder was gone, I’d have noticed it instantly, the way I noticed it was missing this morning."

Arlen nodded and wrote in his notebook. Okay, he said pleasantly. I believe you. The folder was there last night. You filed the suspense file in front of it?

Yes.

And then?

I closed the drawer and locked the safe.

How did you lock the safe?

Jessica sighed. I turned the dial four full rotations and tested the lever. It was locked.

And it was still locked when you came to work this morning?

Jessica opened her mouth to respond, and then hesitated, her brown eyes widening. I don’t know, she said after a moment. I always turn the dial four times before I start to work the combination. And I never try the lever before I enter the combination.

So it could have been closed but unlocked this morning.

She nodded. But I don’t see—

Don’t you find it odd that the entire folder was missing? Arlen asked her.

Jessica’s reply was tart. "To tell you the truth, I haven’t been allowed any time today to think about anything, least of all whether what happened was odd. Of course it was odd. It was odd that anything disappeared overnight. I still don’t see."

"Well, if you were going to steal classified information, would you leave such an obvious footprint? Wouldn’t it make more sense to photograph the document and put it back? Or photocopy it and replace it?"

Well, yes, of course, Jessica agreed. But if you didn’t have time— Her eyes widened. Oh! she said on a breath. Oh!

Exactly. Arlen smiled faintly. Did you come to work early this morning, by any chance?

The expression on her face answered the question even before she spoke. I was a half hour early because I wanted to check out something I thought of last night.

Arlen spread his hands, as if to say, See? Could I take you up on that coffee now, Jessica?

Yes, of course. She went to the kitchen to get it, impressed with how quickly Arlen Coulter had picked up on something she’d entirely missed, something even the security officer, Dave Barron, had entirely missed, in spite of all the questioning she’d endured today.

She was also uncomfortably impressed with a few other things, like how good Arlen Coulter looked. Few men her own age and younger looked half as good as Arlen did, and he must be somewhere over forty. He also made her uncomfortably aware of him. And of herself. She was most definitely not accustomed to such feelings, and she supposed she should be grateful that he was a married man and therefore could be no more than a passing and temporary ripple in her tranquility. She would get used to how good he looked, and that would be that.

An expression of determination on her face, she marched back into the living room with a tray bearing two cups of coffee, the sugar bowl and creamer. Setting the tray on the cherry coffee table between them, she asked, Cream or sugar?

Black, thank you. Arlen looked at the dainty china cups and saucers with their delicate pattern of roses and wondered when was the last time he had seen anyone serve coffee in anything but a mug. Aunt Celeste, he remembered. His wife’s great-aunt had always served coffee in bone china teacups. It wasn’t until Andrew was born that Celeste had astonished Arlen one day by handing him a large mug with his name painted on its side. You’ve accommodated to our family customs a great deal, my boy, she’d said in her stentorian voice, and I thought it was high time we accommodated to one of yours. Until she died at the age of ninety, Celeste had made sure that Arlen’s coffee was always served in a mug whenever he visited any of his wife’s relatives. Damn, he still missed the warm, wonderful, tough old lady.

These are lovely cups, he said now to Jessica, compelled by his memory of the elderly woman. Celeste had taught him whatever drawing-room manners he could claim, and Lord knew there were few enough.

Jessica smiled with pleasure. Thank you. I found them in an antique shop a few months ago. The entire set, in fact, without a chip or a missing piece. They’d cost dearly, but they were an essential part of the home she was trying to create.

They remind me of some dishes my wife’s aunt used to have, Arlen remarked. "I’ve been terrified of breaking the darn things ever since the first time I